


Rules of Transaction

by Regndoft



Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 09:23:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regndoft/pseuds/Regndoft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor and the Master strike a deal - but the assets to be exchanged are not what either of them expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rules of Transaction

The Doctor had been slamming his fist against the TARDIS door for the better part of fifteen minutes before the Master decided to let him in. 

“What in all the Seven Systems took you so long?” he boomed, sweeping into the console room like a small tornado of clashing fabrics. The Master resolutely did not wince at the all-too-familiar sight. 

“I did not march through miles of inhospitable woodland, only to be stood up for a quarter of an hour by a buffoon of your hitherto incomparable calibre! Disguising a TARDIS as a tree in a forest, I – “

When the Master raised the TCE the Doctor fell silent. He scowled at the brandished weapon as only a man who had had an argument building for quite a while and wouldn’t be deterred by anything as banal as a death threat could. 

“You’ll have to forgive my lack of hospitality, seeing what an... unexpected pleasure this is,” the Master said as he smoothed out the creases of his velvet jacket; while the Doctor had been banging away, he’d had quite enough time to get dressed properly, “I was asleep.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want to disturb you, after all,” the Doctor said, moving his arm as if to wave the TCE out of the way, but ended up transforming the motion into one of surrender when the Master stepped closer.

“Satisfied?”

“Not quite. If you have a particular reason for trying to enter my TARDIS unbidden I suggest you tell me about it, if you value your continued existence.”

The Doctor lowered his hands and scoffed. 

“Believe me, if I never had to see your face again I would be no less happy for it; as it is, I seem to have run out of options,” he said and straightened his posture with a firm grip on his lapels. The gesture was not unlike that of a seasoned thespian taking the stage.

“The situation I’m in is unlike anything I’ve encountered before. For all my lives, all my experience and not inconsiderable charm and intelligence,” he paused, either for suspense or for someone in the conspicuously absent audience to chime in, “I’m now facing a conundrum that has left me dazed and destitute. Which is why - against my better judgment, I might add – I’ve braced wind and weather to see you.”

A dramatic silence fell, no doubt carefully crafted; the Master felt loathe to interrupt it. The Doctor let his hands drop and tilted his head in a way he probably thought would lend a sense of gravitas to the final reveal. 

“I’m on a diet.”

The Master raised a delicate eyebrow. This conversation was rapidly approaching a territory he was most familiar with through 31st century neo-surrealist paintings and recreational drugs.

“I wouldn’t worry, Doctor. Most people will be too distracted by the coat to notice.”

“I’m serious! Mel has been driving me harder than a Maleponian horse on a square race track – although where she found the exercise bicycle, I have no idea – ever since she saw me take six spoons of sugar with my tea.”

“Only six?”

“Silly, isn’t it?”

The Master was inclined to agree; it would’ve been twelve in his first body.

“I insisted that while my appearance might be described by some as ‘portly’, I am and always have been at the very peak of physical condition, but she wasn’t convinced. And while her attempts to inundate me with carrot juice might make you think otherwise, she _is_ just trying to—“

“Get to the point, please. I have better things to do than listening to your incessant prattling, and sleep is definitely one of them.”

The Doctor folded his arms and looked down the TCE with a disapproving expression, but the Master pointedly raised it again. His pontificating so far had been a farce and the Master didn’t intend to drop his guard so easily.

“I can’t stay for too long,” he admitted grudgingly, “she always finds me, sooner or later. I was hoping I could find some respite outside definite dimensions.”

It was a lie, of course. If the Doctor was _that_ desperate to indulge his sweet tooth without the concern of his human pet getting in the way, there was an entire universe full of methods to do so. Most of them didn’t even involve killing or horrifically maiming the girl in question, so he would hardly object to them on moral grounds.

“Interesting,” he said and licked his lips, “you’re saying you’ve come to me for sanctuary. Tell me, is there any reason I should trust you, rather than dispose of you right here and now?”

The Doctor smiled conspiratorially and started on a light stroll around the console, without turning his back to the Master. 

“Why, you’d have me completely in your power!” he said and spread his arms, indicating what a fantastic deal this was, “or in your TARDIS, as it is, which is almost as good. Free to make any attempts to impose your will upon me; though I have to warn you that if you try to kill me, I will most certainly do my best to avoid it.”

He looked at the Doctor, draped in a hundred colours and an air of smug satisfaction. His reasoning was sound, if nothing else about the situation was; the Master didn’t trust him, but the possibility of an ulterior motive was, for now, more intriguing than worrying. 

“Very well, Doctor. My home is your castle, for the time being.”

The Master lowered the TCE and gestured for him to come inside.

*

Approximately an hour and a half later, the amount of plates on the table in the second dining hall could be used to arrange a two-dimensional display of a planetary system. 

In fact, it had been used as such approximately twenty minutes earlier, when the Doctor had been elaborating upon a recent venture he and his latest companion had made to the twin moons of Jolassar; two saucers had served as the celestial bodies in question. A spare teaspoon had been the Sontaran battle fleet, which the Doctor was now using to scrape the last bits of chocolate cake from the surface of Jolassar itself.

“Delicious,” he said from across the table, “absolutely exquisite. Moist, slightly bitter layers, but perfectly balanced with the frosting and raspberry mousse. Sublime. Food is a work of art, you know.”

“Thank you Doctor,” the Master replied, “your compliments have been duly noted.”

“You baked this yourself?” 

The Doctor gave him an alarmed look usually reserved for approaching hordes of alien invaders and Vogon poetry. If this was because he was worried about having ingested some slightly more unorthodox ingredients than your basic cocoa powder and lacteal fluids, or because he’d accidentally paid his nemesis a compliment, the Master couldn’t tell. 

Whatever it was, it certainly didn’t prevent the Doctor from spooning up the last remaining cake crumbs. 

“For the record, I used Halonian redfruit instead of raspberries. The taste is much the same, but the former are infinitely easier to find in this sector in this time zone.”

“I suppose anything you do that doesn’t directly result in the death of millions is a change for the better,” he admitted grudgingly.

“I _was_ going to poison the Peladonian heir with it, but your unexpected arrival prompted a change of plans,” the Master confessed.

“The poison would have been in the garnish, not the cake itself,” he added helpfully.

“Well, that’s a relief. I’d hate to think you intended to do me any harm.”

The Master watched the Doctor lean back in his chair, looking for all the world like he couldn’t be happier to be exactly where he was at that moment. The last couple of hours had been oddly pleasant, if surreal; it reminded the Master of when the Doctor had been stuck on earth and the rare moments when courtesy and common interests had brought them together in less antagonistic manners. The thought didn’t bring him as much pleasure as it once would have done. 

Casually the Master stood up and started walking to the other side of the table. When he stopped, the Doctor had to tilt his head backwards to look him in the eye.

“Now when your appetite is sated, perhaps we could go on to discuss more... pressing matters of transactions.”

He placed a hand on the table and smiled as the Doctor’s expression grew guarded again.

“Yes, I suppose you were going to bring that up again sooner or later.”

“Why Doctor, it’s nothing less than fair, is it not? You wake me from my sleep, barge into my home and – albeit unknowingly – ruin my plans for a hostile takeover. I believe a certain amount of compensation is in order.”

From somewhere in the depth of his pockets the Doctor had produced a hideous mustard yellow handkerchief with green spots, which he dabbed sophisticatedly at his mouth before standing up. The motion brought him even closer to the Master; close enough for him to count the eyelashes beneath the Doctor’s frowning brow and to see him swallow when the Master pressed the TCE against his padded abdomen. 

“Very well,” he said, “under protest. You have me at your mercy, _Master_ , but don’t think I’m doing this willingly.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have much choice in the matter, Doctor. As you say, I have you at my mercy.”

The Master raised a gloved hand and let it slide down a brightly coloured lapel. The Doctor might have shivered; it was hard to tell.

“Please wash up before you leave.”

The Doctor blinked. With amusement, the Master stepped back and watched his defiant scowl transform into one of confusion.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The dishes, Doctor. You’ve perused my cutlery quite liberally; the least you could do is wash up before you go.”

Realisation dawned on the Doctor’s face like a sun. Not unexpectedly, it brought a storm with it.

“ _The dishes?!_ ”

He screeched with something resembling righteous indignation. The Master brushed some invisible lint off his velvet sleeve and suppressed a smirk; this particular version of the Doctor was more passionate than most, an intensity that brimmed over into action all too easily.

“You have me, unaccompanied, in your TARDIS, limp and sated after a cavalcade of frankly fantastic desserts, _completely_ at your mercy, and you ask me to _wash up after myself?_ ”

“After the both of us,” the Master corrected and adjusted his collar, still with his back towards the Doctor, “and wipe them off too, of course.”

The next thing he became aware of was a strong hand forcing him around and a pair of lips crashing into his. The collision of teeth when he opened his mouth was quite painful at first, but soon softened before an arm wrapped around his waist and guided him back towards the table. As they wrangled for control, the Master didn’t care to hold back his smile anymore.

The Doctor had been quite a fool thinking that his scheme would pass him unnoticed.


End file.
